Cin Vhetin
by Arcadia Jones
Summary: Essentially, this is a little overview of the story/romance that develops between Torian Cadera and the female Bounty Hunter, only from Torian's perspective. Rated M for later content.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: So I wrote this because I think there needs to be more on the BH/Torian romance. I see a lot of Quinn (and don't get me wrong, I love Quinn), but lately I've been falling in virtual love with the Mando and decided to write a little mini story about the BH story line from his perspective (to an extent; I hate writing in first person).

I'm trying to use a lot of Mando'a vocabulary in these stories, but because this is just something to kill time (and what time I have to kill is limited) I'm going to just admit here that I have not (nor do I intend to) learn the actual grammatical structure of the Mando'a language. The phrases and words I'll use come mostly from the "Wookipedia" page on Mando'a as well as the Karen Traviss site. So if anyone is really big into absolute accuracy, you can correct me or you can just skip over this story. (Gonna put some extra emphasis on "hobby" here.)

Since this story is being told from Torian's perspective, I've used "Mando'ad" and its plural "Mando'ade" to refer to the Mandalorians outside of conversations because, well, it seems a bit more proper. Probably won't go any further than that, however, if only because I'll start to confuse myself (as well as others, I'm certain).

That being said, I hope you all enjoy the story! If you have any constructive criticism or anything else to say about it, leave a review.

One

Dromund Kaas was truly a gloomy planet. The thick atmosphere and canopy of trees blocked most sunlight, leaving the world beneath constantly shrouded in shadows. But at least sight was still possible during the day; at night, the pitch-black world closed in, bringing all manner of nightmares to life.

Mando'ade don't fear the dark. Day or night, if the hunt was on it was on. There were no such silly excuses as "blindness" or "apprehension." Not to say that all Mando'ade were reckless, suicidal fools: they just knew how to handle themselves. If you couldn't use your eyes, there were still four other perfectly capable senses to get the job done.

Torian Cadera had been born for this life. The thrill of the hunt, the feel of his vibroblade sinking into the flesh of his prey, and, above all, that heady, sticky scent of blood that filled his nostrils and lungs with its intoxicating aroma…yes, this was life he savored. It was in the marrow of his bones, throbbing in time with each beat of his strong heart.

He ran the edge of his boot knife along a whetstone, eyes half-lidded and muscles relaxed. This was his mediation, his leisure. The gentle scraping of steel against stone was better than any kind of music to his ears. Torian lifted the blade in front of his eyes, inspecting its edges. Razor-sharp, perfect for a close quarters fight. He still preferred his electrostaff for most fights, but it never hurt to have the sharp dagger close.

"_Copaani gaan, vod?"_

Torian's grip reflexively tightened around the hilt of his knife as someone grabbed his shoulder from behind. Years of honing his battle reflexes made his muscles eager to spring up and slice the hand off; but his mind was rational enough to recognize the voice and he quickly suppressed his ingrained urge to fight. There were only a few people in the camp who would bother to talk to him and only one who would call him "comrade."

"No. Just checking weapons."

Jogo moved to stand in front of Torian, the corners of his lips raised in a cocky little grin. "Mind if I sit with you."

"_Gedet'ye." _Torian motioned towards the makeshift seat across his solitary fire, sheathing his knife as Jogo plopped down with a sigh.

"Any news?" Torian asked, lifting his electrostaff from its position on the ground so that he might examine its edge.

"Kohre says we're to have visitors soon."

"Who?"

"I don't know for sure, but rumor says it's the champion himself. Mandalore's new favorite."

Torian looked up from his weapon, interest piqued. "The champion? Why come here?"

Jogo shrugged. "Probably to strut around and show off his shiny new accolades. Who knows?"

"Shouldn't talk like that."

"Why not? It's probably the truth."

"Even so, the champion has earned the right. Not many cut out to win the Great Hunt."

"Yeah, well, if you ask me, it's a bunch of gundark shit. Man's not even a Mando'ad. Probably cheated to get his way in."

Torian doubted that, but decided not to press the topic. Jogo was a good warrior, but he often let his pride and jealousy get the best of him. It was for that reason that many of the others in the camp disliked him—not to mention the fact that part of their loathing came from the fact that Jogo insisted on hanging around the "disgraced son." Torian was grateful for the company—it certainly beat sitting alone all of the time—but there were days when he wanted to hit Jogo for being an arrogant fool.

"Do we hunt tonight?" he asked after a couple moments of silence.

"No. Our visitor should be here within the hour and until they get their business done, all hunts have been postponed."

Torian's brow furrowed in confusion. Jogo caught the look and sighed.

"Don't ask me. Commander Fett's orders. He says that we need to be stationary for the moment so we don't interfere with the champion's hunt. You know what I think?" Jogo leaned forward, the fire casting the smug look on his face in distorted shadows. "I think that he's afraid we'll get the champion's kill first. Wouldn't want the sonuvabitch to look bad, right?"

Torian chuckled. "Sure, Jogo. Should probably pull head out of your ass now. Might want to see champion before passing judgment."

"Hey! Whose side are you on?"

"No sides. Just the hunt." Torian turned his attention back to his electrostaff, running its pointed end across his whetstone. Jogo sighed again, moving to lie down next to the fire with his hands behind his head.

"You've got such a one-track mind, Torian." A pause. "We need to get you laid." Torian could hear the smirk in his friend's voice.

"No, thanks. Hunt is all I need."

"Your loss. There are plenty of fine women in Kaas City that I know would kill to have a night with you."

Torian chuckled at the thought. Plenty of soft, weak creatures, certainly. Whores and dancers, women who had never once picked up a weapon unless it was to slide a blade between the shoulder blades of a rich client. They were beautiful, sure, but unlike Jogo and the others, Torian didn't have the desire to sleep with someone for the mere physical relief. The hunt was his aphrodisiac, his blood-pumping workout. Besides, the act of sex was perhaps the most vulnerable time for any person and Torian thought it foolish to leave oneself so open to a stranger.

Time passed as early dawn turned into late afternoon. Since there was no hunt, most of the warriors in the camp milled about, talking and drinking. Some wrestled, others tended to their gear in a similar manner as Torian had done. The air was tense with leashed bloodlust. Nothing more dangerous than a camp full of Mando'ade itching for a fight they were denied.

Torian felt the pull perhaps most keenly of all. Normally he was an expert at maintaining calm, collected emotions. But now he found himself beginning to feel restless and the fuse on his temper felt as if it had been burned down to a nub. Several times he almost stood up and joined the ring of wrestling warriors, thinking that the pleasant feeling of smashing a face into the ground repeatedly might lessen his tension. But every time he wandered close, the others shot him warning looks as if reminding him of his place: a part of the pack, but still an outsider.

He finally gave up on that endeavor and chose to work on some practice drills by himself. Basic martial arts crafted into a training regimen that Torian went through at least twice a day. Stripped down to nothing but a loose pair of pants, Torian closed his eyes and began moving as the pattern of his workout flowed through his muscles. He didn't have to think about what his body was doing; muscle memory did all of the work. Languid stretches and loose stances that could, at an instant, transform into lightning-fast punches and dizzying footwork.

Most Mando'ade preferred pistols and blaster rifles for the hunt, honing their marksmanship skills and claiming superiority. A precious few, such as Torian, reveled in close-quarters combat. Others had mocked his style as brutish and thus lacking in finesse, but Torian—and others like him—knew the truth. There was an art to killing something (or someone) up close and personal. It put you that much closer to the hunt, breathing the same air as your prey before putting them down. Torian relished the feeling and so he trained his body—again and again—for all the subtle reactions, defenses, and maneuvers that were often the only difference between survival and severed limbs.

Sweat lined the taut muscles of his bare chest and arms, running in little rivulets down his neck and spine. Dromund Kaas being the perpetually dark planet it was, the air was chill. But Torian barely noticed the cold as his muscles warmed to the exercise. In a way, he was almost grateful for the planet's cool temperature; doing his routine on a planet like Tatooine was tantamount to suicide by heat stroke.

"Torian!"

Years of training kept Torian from losing his balance at the sudden interruption. Standing on one foot, right arm extended in what could have been a vicious jab, he turned his head to where Jogo waved at him from across the camp.

"Come quick!"

From the way the other Mando'ade were gathering, Torian assumed that their visitor must have finally arrived. Thank the heavens for that, at least. The sooner the man got his business done, the sooner the war party could resume their normal routine. Despite his vigorous workout, Torian truly desired nothing more at that moment than to run into a den of angry Sleens and put his newly sharpened vibroblade to the test.

He quickly pulled his boots back on but didn't bother to don his armor as he jogged across the camp to where the others were gathered, Jogo at the helm as they stared down a slight figure at their center. Everyone was quiet, except for Jogo whose voice was already raised in a sneer as he questioned the champion. Torian sidled up alongside his friend, ignoring the disgusted glares of the others.

That was the first time he saw her.

_Her. _The champion was a woman. It wasn't unheard of, but Torian still found that he was utterly surprised. Short silver hair framed violet eyes and a pale face that showed the scars of battle as well as a simplistic working of cybernetic implants. Her lips were full and red, currently set in a hard line as she listened to Jogo's taunts. But Torian barely heard what his friend was saying; the sight of this woman—champion of the Great Hunt and favored of Mandalore—had him staring, speechless.

Her eyes wandered a bit, as if she was just waiting for Jogo to quit his posturing—which was no doubt the case. She took in the gathered warriors, some donned in full Mando'ad armor, others—like Torian—stripped to the waist. Some of the men seemed to be trying to show off, flexing bits of muscle here and there as her gaze fell upon them. When those violet orbs lit on Torian, he felt as if he'd been punched in the gut.

There was danger in that gaze. Danger, and beauty. For a moment, he wondered what she might look like with a smile…

A grin quirked at the edges of her lips as she moved her gaze from the half-naked Torian back to Jogo.

"—you think you're so special? These men have been out here for months now and you expect us to give up our hunt for—"

"Are you done?"

Jogo spluttered, looking down the few inches to her face in flustered confusion. "What?"

"I asked, are you done? The longer we sit here gabbing, the longer these men go without a hunt. It wasn't my decision to interfere, but I must do what the job entails, especially when it's a job from _your _leader."

The Devaronian standing behind her chuckled as Jogo's face began to purple with rage.

"Who do you—"

"My name is Phelara Gracchus, Champion of the Great Hunt and bounty hunter for hire. And you are?"

Jogo looked as if his head might explode any second. Torian quickly stepped in before his friend could open his mouth and make matters worse.

"Torian Cadera. He is Jogo. Welcome to our camp."

Phelara smiled at him, and Torian suddenly felt very dizzy. His brief fantasy of the gesture did not pay the proper respects her features deserved when she smiled.

"I was beginning to wonder if there was any civility left in the world. It's a pleasure to meet you, Torian. Jogo." The last she added as an afterthought, ever-so-slightly inclining her head towards the darker-haired man.

"You're here for a hunt?"

"That's about the gist of it. Mandalore asked me to bring him a trophy. What kind of creatures are you guys hunting down here?"

"Sith spawn, we think. Mostly just babies up here. Something down there, though. Something dark and powerful. Can feel its heartbeat in the walls."

"Well then, that sounds like a good start."

Jogo snorted. "Better hunters than you have tried. Go down there and you'll die."

Phelara's grin was far from friendly this time: sharp and deadly, just like the hungry vibroblade in Torian's boot. A hunter's smile.

"Sit back and watch. I'll show you how this thing is done."

"_Ne shab'rud'ni…" _

Torian quickly placed himself in between the pair, pushing Jogo back a pace. He pointed off in the distance to where a dark cave loomed in the mountainside.

"Over there. The hunting grounds. Suggest you move quickly."

"Thanks." Sharp eyes leveled on Jogo once more. "Try not to cause any trouble while I'm gone, kids."

Before Jogo could retaliate, she was off. Torian watched her and her companion leave.

"Why do you always drag me to these dangerous places?" the Devaronian was whining. "Why can't we, just once, have a mission that involves a cantina?"

"Gault, the last time we were in a cantina, I killed three guys."

"You got me there. I'm starting to think that maybe you need some anger management counseling…"

The rest of their conversation was lost to the breeze as they moved down the hill. It wasn't until they could no longer see the pair that Torian finally released Jogo and took a step back, watching his friend carefully to make sure that he wasn't planning on some form of retaliation.

"What the fuck is the matter with you, Torian?" Jogo snarled. "You'd take some _aruetii's _side over mine?"

"No sides, _or'dinii. _Not wise to work against agents of Mandalore. Besides, she is not _aruetii. _She is _verd. _ Look past your own arrogance and you'd see it."

Jogo spat at Torian's feet, eyes blazing. Torian silently pleaded with the man not to continue, to drop the subject and move on. Either Jogo didn't notice the silent plea or he chose to ignore it.

"You keep this up, you'll always be _aru'tal, _Torian. Remember who your friends are."

Torian watched as Jogo stormed off, his heart aching. The man was right, of course. To maintain his position in the group—let alone throughout the rest of Mando'ad society—his best course of action was to remain the grunt, the "yes-man." Jogo was the only one who treated him like somewhat of a friend and Torian had spurned him. For what? A woman? An outsider?

And yet…and yet…

He found his gaze wandering towards the cave. Perhaps there was something more. No one—man or woman—had ever caused Torian to feel so flustered. The burning in the pit of his stomach that had started the moment he had seen her was the same aching that he felt one the hunt when he knew his prey was close. There had to be something to that…surely.

Quickly, Torian moved to his discarded armor and began to buckle it on. If the hunter—Phelara—managed to kill the prey she sought, then she was worthy of her title. If not, then she deserved death. Either way, Torian wanted to be there, to watch her in action and witness the killing blow…no matter which way it fell.

END NOTE:

Some translations:

_Copaani gaan, vod? _– Need a hand, comrade?

_Gedet'ye – _Please (not really sure if the Mando'a version can be used in the context that I used it, but oh well. Just go with it.)

_Ne shab'rud'ni – _Don't mess with me (strong warning, usually followed by violence)

_Aruetii – _outsider/traitor/ "non-Mandalorian"

_or'dinii – _fool/moron

_verd – _warrior/soldier

_aru'tal – _traitor's blood/traitor's son (this was used in game by Jogo and, looking at my little dictionary, "aru" seems to be the stem of either enemy or traitor whereas "tal" means blood)

Once again, the vocab and its definitions are from Wookiepedia and Karen Traviss's site. I do not presume to own them or the game or, really, anything else about this story other than the story itself.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: I'm sure those of you who play a BH have noticed Torian's semi-halted speech in game. I'm trying to stick with that as close as I can partly to keep him in character and partly because, well…I find it cute. (I know, hopeless.)

Also, a little background on my BH for perspective: mostly light-side with a few dark-side options thrown in here and there. She's not a "goody two-shoes" but neither is she a senseless killer. Phelara loves being a bounty hunter for pay, but she also has a good degree of admiration for the Mandalorians and their respect for the hunt. (I played my Sorcerer pure dark-side and that was just absolutely fun. But I decided to play a more "lawful evil" or "lawful neutral" character this time around to get a different view of the Empire story as well as develop my character so she fits my head-canon better.)

Not sure if any of that matters or if anyone cares, but there it is. Rambling: complete.

Two

The sun of Dromund Kaas—if it could even be called that—was beginning to set, shrouding the planet in darkness. Outside of the cave, Torian used his other senses and his instinct to guide his path; inside, natural clusters of crystal offered eerie illumination: just enough to see where you were walking but not enough to tell if a shadow was just a shadow or something far more sinister.

Phelara and her companion crept through the dark recesses of the cave, weapons at hand. The champion favored dual blasters, which was impressive considering how much training it took for someone to learn a high enough level of ambidexterity to use the blasters in perfect union—which Torian assumed was the case, considering her title. The Devaronian, on the other hand, held a sniper rifle in his red-hued hands. From the way the alien had been complaining earlier, Torian wondered if he could really use it. Then again, why would the champion bring along a useless partner?

All around them, the shadows shifted. Torian pressed his hand to the moist wall on his left, suppressing a shudder—born of both apprehension and excitement—as he felt the ancient, throbbing heartbeat. It was stronger than usual, as if the beast knew they were coming. Maybe that was why they hadn't run into any of the smaller Sith spawn that his war party had been hunting for the past few months: they, too, were afraid of this ancient power and knew it best to hide.

"Remind me why I decided to work for you?" the Devaronian whispered, hands shifting nervously on the grip of his rifle.

"Because it was either that or a blaster hole in the head?"

He sighed. "You are a cruel, heartless slave-driver, you know that?"

"Yeah, yeah. The exit's behind you, buddy. I suggest you start running now if I'm so terrible."

"Ugh, and face Mako without you? Babe, I'm not sure which of those scenarios is worse."

"You're about to lose the choice. And don't call me 'babe.'"

Torian felt a small smile quirking the corners of his lips. The pair was obviously not very well matched, but it was almost…refreshing to witness the kind of camaraderie they had together. Had the Devaronian been a member of the Mando'ad camp, he would have been fed to the local wildlife or pushed off the edge of a steep cliff for all his whining.

But then, did Phelara's tolerance make her weak? From Torian's experience, iron-fisted rule was the only way to get things done. How _had _she made it through the Great Hunt if she was willing to permit such limitations in her people?

A low, throaty growl sounded from a darkened alcove ahead of them. Phelara halted, her companion following suit just a few steps behind. Torian watched as she quickly surveyed their location before motioning to a low outcropping of rock to their right. The Devaronian moved into position, the barrel of his sniper rifle resting on the surface of the outcropping as he knelt down for stability.

_Good positioning, _Torian silently praised. The alcove was just a few hundred feed ahead and so long as her sniper was good at his job, his position would give him ample protection and space to attack.

Once her companion was in place, Phelara started moving towards the darkness. Torian felt the skin on the back of his neck begin to prickle. She was using herself as bait to draw the beast from its lair. That took guts, but it was also rather foolish.

As if sensing his thoughts, Phelara looked over her shoulder in his general direction. There was no possible way she could see him—Torian was certain that the shadows he rested in were doing their job at concealing him—but she smiled at the apparent emptiness nonetheless before turning back to the task at hand.

"Ready, Gault?"

"No, but does it matter?"

The ground beneath their feet began to shake; the low growl they had heard before started up again, quickly gaining in intensity as whatever was in the darkness rushed towards the intruders.

"Nope!"

Phelara was on the move just as the ancient beast entered the slim light of the cavern. The crystals' illumination did little to reveal the true figure of the monstrous creature; instead, the natural light made it seem even more menacing than legends claimed as the shadows flickering across its hide seemed to be squirming as of a myriad little beasts crawling over its armored skin. The danger was that it was impossible to tell if they were in fact just shadows or if something might leap off of the monster at any second and attach itself to exposed skin.

"Now, Gault!"

The Devaronian's right arm came back and then snapped forward, a blinking grenade flying out towards the massive beast. Phelara was sprinting towards the other half of the cavern and had nearly made it to cover when the grenade exploded. The shockwave took her feet out from under her and Phelara rolled the last of the distance to the wall.

The grenade had done its work, however, as the beast howled in pain. Shrapnel peppered the more sensitive flesh around its eyes and maw, but rather than weaken the monster, the attack seemed only to have made it angrier. Gault had wisely ducked down behind his cover after releasing the grenade which left Phelara as the only visible target as she worked to regain her footing and shake away the dizziness from her tumble.

Torian gripped his electrostaff white-knuckled; his blood burned to be a part of this fight. The only thing holding him back was Jogo's warning and his own sense. If he helped the champion, it wasn't likely that she would thank him and he knew that no one in the camp would look upon him any more fondly—even if he had helped to kill an ancient Sith spawn. No, this was her fight and he would not interfere. He had only come to watch and witness for himself if the champion was worthy of her title.

The beast roared as it turned on Phelara, acidic saliva dripping from its wide maw as it prowled towards her. From what Torian could see, the woman looked as if she were hurt: one arm wrapped around her middle and her posture bent slightly. Frustration furrowed his brow. One little tumble and she was out of the fight? Maybe Jogo had been right…

The beast's predatory instincts seemed to have picked up on its prey's weakness as well and it quickly upped its pace, barreling towards Phelara with another primal roar. She watched it coming, hand still tucked securely around her middle. When the beast was barely ten feet in front of her, Phelara exploded into action. All pretense of injury fell away as she powered the jetpack on her back and leapt out of the beast's path. It couldn't stop its momentum and went crashing head-first into the cave wall, creating a good-sized dent that temporarily trapped its bulbous head in the stone.

Phelara took full advantage of the beast's position, firing round after round of blaster fire and missiles into its exposed back. The report of Gault's sniper rifle—he obviously hadn't seen the need to use a silencer—followed every few seconds as he took careful aim to inflict the most damage. Every hit caused the monster to roar in pain as it struggled to free itself from the cave wall. After a few moments, it succeeded and rounded on Phelara once more, hatred burning in its pitted black-red eyes.

The beast charged at Phelara once more, only this time the woman wasn't playing opossum and even if she were, there were no nearby walls to repeat the maneuver. Brackish blood splashed on the ground with each step the monster took. The damage hadn't been enough to kill it, but it had certainly been enough to slow it down. Really, its charge was more of a lumbering canter punctuated by a stumble here and there.

Phelara held her ground, squeezing off a few shots as the beast approached. The armored plating covering the front of the beast's body easily deflected the bolts as it continued its advance.

"Phel! Move your ass!"

Torian looked down to where Gault was now standing behind his cover, firing off shots but distracted as he watched impending doom descend on his boss.

"Mind your own business!"

"Your life _is_ my business!"

The beast had nearly closed the distance with Phelara. Its long, spiked arms reached out to grab a hold of her, maw open wide and eyes hungry. Gault squeezed off a shot that hit the creature's left eyes dead-center and its head snapped to the side as it roared in pain.

Phelara used the distraction to fire up her jetpack once more—only this time using it to propel herself up and towards the beast. She extinguished the flames when she was just above it, landing on the monster's hulking shoulders. It began to flail and roar, trying to knock her loose.

Torian heard a loud, double clanging noise and spotted the woman's pistols clattering to the stone floor. His gut clenched. Nearby, Gault cursed. The same image passed through their minds then: Phelara descending into the gullet of the beast.

But what they witnessed next left both gaping in wonder.

With one hand, Phelara gripped an armored plate to keep her balance as the monster continued to flail about, unable to reach her with his deadly, taloned claws. Her other hand had drawn a wicked-looking knife from a sheath on her belt. Roaring, she plunged the blade into a section of unprotected skin at the base of the creature's enormous head, sawing the weapon wildly to make the wound wider. The beast shrieked in pain, doubling its efforts to shake her loose.

Just as she began to lose her grip, Phelara angled the flamethrower—built into the same arm holding the knife—at the gaping hole she had made.

"Fry, motherfucker!"

Flames burst from the spout at her wrist, scorching the back of the beast's head and entering the wound to begin cooking its brain from the outside in. A primal scream of agony filled the cavern, sending Torian's ears to ringing. Phelara kept up the stream of flame as long as she was able before the monster's frantic movements finally dislodged her. Torian watched as her body went flying—smacking against the far wall and then landing on the ground in a motionless heap.

The beast continued to flail about for a few minutes—still emitting that deafening sound—before it finally crashed to the floor, twitching. Torian could just barely see its eyes from where he crouched: they continued to stare, reptilian lids occasionally blinking, but there was no thought behind the gesture. No emotion. The beast wasn't dead yet, but there was no doubt that its mind had, literally, friend.

"Phel! Gods damn you, woman. If you're dead, don't expect me to lug your corpse back out of here!"

Torian watched as Gault approached the prone body of the champion. He realized, to his surprise, that his own heart was aching. Truly, the woman was a splendid hunter. A true _verd. _A death like this would be honorable, but he found himself desperately hoping that she was still alive.

Gault was at her side now, carefully rolling the woman onto her back. He checked the pulse at her throat then gently slapped at her cheeks.

"Wakey, wakey, babe. I've heard it's bad to sleep with a concussion."

"…don't…me…babe…"

Gault grinned. "That's more like it. Can you walk?"

Phelara groaned. Every inch of her body ached. There was a burning in her chest that certainly pointed to broken ribs as well as the throbbing ache in the back of her head that, as Gault had said, probably meant a concussion. But surprisingly, nothing else was broken. Apart from a few bloody scrapes—including a rather gruesome patch of missing skin on her arm where the crash had torn through her armor—and some bruises that were going to take a while to heal, she was whole.

"Y-yeah. Just…help me up."

Gault complied, looping his arm behind her back as she struggled to her feet. When he tried to sling her left arm over his shoulders, her ribs screamed in protest and with a pained gasp Phelara quickly retracted the limb.

"I should be fine. Let's just…get out of here."

Torian slipped back through the cave as they started towards him, swiftly making his way out and back to the camp. The Devaronian would make sure that she made it out of the cave, he was certain. Right now, his plan was to assimilate back into the camp and pretend as if he'd never left. He hadn't done a thing to help the champion with her hunt but he doubted that anyone would believe him if they knew where he'd been.

Jogo glared at him warily when he returned but said nothing to Torian's relief. He took a seat by his solitary fire. The pit had died down in his absence but it only took a few minutes and some extra kindling to get it going again. It was when his fire was burning hot once more that he heard the first shouts:

"Hail the champion!"

"_Kandosii!"_

Cheers went up all around the camp, cries of _"Oya!" _followed by a chant that took root like wildfire: _"Beroya'kote! Verd'parjai!"_

A few moments later and Phelara began making her way up the hill towards the camp. Her gait was stiff and Torian noticed how closely the Devaronian watched her, but the champion did well to mask her pain and walk on her own two feet right up to Jogo. She tossed a sack—blood seeping through the fabric to stain the grass—at his feet, grinning smugly.

"One papa Sith spawn head, dead and delivered."

Jogo knelt down to undo the clasp of the bag, peering inside. His nose wrinkled at the rank smell that wafted from its contents—further cementing the fact that the head did, in fact, belong to a Sith spawn. The size of it proved that it was no baby. Jogo closed the bag and stood back up to face her, reluctant admiration in his face.

"How did you manage to kill the beast? So many of our own died trying to do the same. Good warriors, all of them."

"If all of your warriors are like you, it's really no wonder that they all died. A successful hunt takes more than brute strength and confidence. Use your head from time to time and I have no doubt your men will spend more time breathing."

"There must be some truth to what you say," Jogo admitted hesitantly, his features still twisted in a frown. "I mean, you are here and they are dead, after all. Very well. I salute your victory, hunter."

The others commenced cheering and starting up their chant once more. Phelara gazed around herself at the jubilant warriors before allowing her eyes to rest on Torian. A smile played at the edges of her full lips.

"_Ori'jate, beroya. _Good hunt."

"Thanks, kid."

Torian's brow furrowed a bit in frustration. "Not a kid."

"Sorry, didn't mean to offend," was her reply, but her eyes were laughing.

The look was infectious. "No offense taken."

Phelara started to turn away, then paused to look back over her shoulder at him. A sly smile painted the bruises around her face. "Maybe we'll meet again someday. Take care of yourself…kid."

"_Ret'urcye mhi," _Torian murmured as he watched her walk away. When he looked back to his party, he couldn't help but notice the many spiteful glares leveled his way. Jogo refused to look at him at all. Perhaps it was jealousy that fueled their reactions—a woman like the champion was an excellent catch, after all, and it had been rather obvious that she favored the _aru'tal—_or perhaps it was something else. Given the choice, he would have followed Phelara away from this place.

_Doesn't matter, _Torian told himself as he moved to sit by his campfire. _Can't expect respect. Have to fix my name. Then maybe a woman like her would want me. Maybe._

Darkness descended on the surface of Dromund Kaas as the Mando'ade fires burned long into the night.

Author's Note: Honestly, if given the option, I would have a hard time NOT romancing Gault. His comments always make me laugh and even though he's a greedy bastard, I just love his character. But since that option isn't available—and I truly do love Torian—I love the idea of this pair as "BFFs." Don't get me wrong, I like Mako, too, but sometimes she just has a little too much baggage. I see Mako as more of a little sister I'm duty-bound to protect while Gault is my buddy who will probably get me arrested and acts like a self-centered ass, but really does have some feelings in him. Deep, DEEP down.

(Oh, and I didn't edit this chapter very thoroughly. So I apologize for any grammatical errors, typos, or whatnot that you may find. If there's anything in there that's really bothersome, leave me a review and I'll fix it.)

TRANSLATIONS:

_Kandosii – "_Nice one!"/"Well done!"

_Beroya'kote! _– "glory to the bounty hunter!" (yeah, did this one myself so no idea if it can be read like that. The words are "bounty hunter" and "glory" so even if the grammar is wrong, you get the gist.)

_Verd'parjai! – _"a warrior's victory!" (Once again, my own word-smash. Words are "warrior" and "victory" so, again, you get the gist.)

_Ori'jate – _"Very good."

_Ret'urcye mhi – _"Goodbye." Literally: "Maybe we'll meet again." (So really, the conversation where this appears is a bit repetitive, but I don't give a damn right now. It's just like using a synonym to make the words sound less repetitive even though, technically, the sentence still is. Okay, gonna stop now.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Thanks for all the feedback! Hopefully the story will continue to go well, hehe.

So I keep hitting a bit of snag trying to write the Taris arc of the story. Already scrapped one almost-completed chapter because it sounded far too much like I was regurgitating the exact events of the game (which is hard to avoid, sometimes) and since I'm assuming that most already know what happened according to BioWare, I wanted to give a slightly different view of events. On top of that, my last week of classes is upon me and I am scrambling a bit to get a few papers done. (Not to mention the fact that I've started to get into Dragon Age again which is good for my creative muscle in that area, but not so good for my poor BH and her Mando.)

So there are my excuses and following will be my attempt to focus on this story. ;)

/

Three

Torian looked down the sights of his pilfered sniper rifle, searching for another exposed target. The Republic soldiers of Taris were a rather oblivious lot, panicking every time he downed one of their own instead of trying to retrace the trajectory of the shot and find their killer. That just meant more dead soldiers for them and a brief respite for the Mando'ad.

Before his war party had set down on the swamp-covered and rakghoul-infested planet of Taris, Torian hadn't believed in fortune. It wasn't luck that had given him a spot in a true Mando'ade party: he had earned his place through much pain and blood. The matching scars on his cheeks were proof of that, as were the many other scars that his armor masked. But apparently his luck had finally come, for Torian knew that his father—that horrible traitor—was on this planet and for the first time in his young life, the young Mando'ad saw a vision of a future where no one would ever again know him as _aru'tal._

Torian would bathe in the bastard's blood if it would cleanse his name.

But like many things, finding Jicoln Cadera was easier said than done. Torian had been searching the swamp world for nearly a fortnight and had little to show for his hunt. Jicoln might have been a traitor, but the fact that he was still at large meant he was a very _successful _traitor. The young Mando'ad knew he was close, however. Every day brought him half a step closer to finding his father and ending the miserable bastard's life.

This day had proved less than successful. Torian had thought himself close to discovering the traitor's bolthole, only to realize that he had been played for a fool. That was why he was lying on his belly above his own hideout sniping Republic soldiers rather than searching the swamps for more clues: watching their heads explode in his scope was an almost meditative balm to his frustration.

He caught signs of movement nearby and quickly locked onto his next target. Left eye shut tight, right eye peering through the scope…there! The image quickly came into focus: a…Devaronian? And not just any Devaronian, but one with a missing horn. Torian felt his heart clench as a thousand different ideas began swimming through his mind: was _she _here? Was she on the hunt? Would she let him join? Was she still as beautiful as the last time?

Shifting his rifle to the side a bit, the scope focused on the Devaronian's partner. Sure enough, there she was: the Champion. Her silvery hair was matted with swamp slime, but to Torian's eyes it still shone; her violet eyes surveyed the area, not missing a single detail; her full lips moved as she spoke with her companion, occasionally upturning into a charming smile. Phelara Gracchus, the woman who haunted his dreams. Every time Torian closed his eyes, he could still see her dealing the killing blow to the ancient Sith spawn; the memory always left him hot and aching. Now here she was, walking through the swamps of Taris straight towards his hideout…

Wait…

_Is she hunting…me? _It seemed a rather absurd thought—he had assumed that none of the others would bother placing a bounty on his head—but it drifted through his mind nonetheless.

_My brothers wouldn't place the bounty…but what of the Republic?_

Even that idea seemed a little far-fetched; Torian had only been at his hideout for a few days. If the Republic wanted to place a bounty on his head, surely it would take longer than that for word to get out. Besides, the Champion wouldn't work for the Republic—would she? Bounty Hunters didn't normally pick sides, but there was little love lost between Mando'ade and the Republic. Any true Mando'ad would need good reason to take a Republic bounty and Torian doubted that he had done anything to warrant such infamy.

But then, paranoia had kept him alive this long and there was no reason to stop trusting it now. Torian wanted to believe in the Champion's honor, but he would not leave himself open. Jicoln had to be found first. So he watched as the pair made their way towards his hideout, waiting until they had made begun making their way inside before scrambling down to ambush them. She may be the woman of his dreams—literally—but that did not mean he would die for her. Not now.

/

Torian crept carefully through the darkened entrance of his sanctuary, straining his ears to pick up the slightest sounds. There was the light patter of footsteps ahead and voices lowered in conversation. The further in he moved, the more he could make out:

"…wasting our time. He's probably more likely to kill us than help us." That was the Devaronian.

"We won't know until we talk to him."

"And what will you do if it turns out I'm right?"

"I'll do what I have to. A job is a job, after all."

"Yeah, yeah. You say that _now. _But the way I see it, you're starting to go soft."

The footsteps stopped. "Come again?"

"I remember the way you talked to the kid back on Dromund Kaas. 'Maybe we'll meet again someday! Then we can head back to my ship and I can rock your world!'"

"I have never said anything of the sort."

"You didn't have to, babe. It was written all over your face."

Phelara didn't respond; Torian found that he smiling.

"If you'd like, I can always head back to the ship and give you some alone time. Gods know you need it…"

"Keep talking, buddy. I'm sure there are many other crime lords who would just _love _to get their hands on the body of a certain annoying Devaronian."

The Devaronian grumbled something beneath his breath, but did not press the issue. Torian could see their backs now, just ahead in the dim glow of his sanctum. He pulled the vibroblade tucked away in his right boot out and tested its edge. Sharp and ready. A few more steps and he could make his move.

"You know," the Devaronian began again as Torian made his move, "this seems like the perfect opportunity for a trap—oh! And there it is!"

Torian ignored the alien as he wrapped his free arm around Phelara's midsection, pressing the cold edge of his knife against the unprotected flesh at the woman's throat. Her head leaned back at the pressure, almost resting on his shoulder. Torian steeled himself to ignore the heady scent of her hair and skin as he pressed his lips against her ear.

"What are you doing here, _beroya?" _He breathed the words, fighting against the rush of desire that shot through him as her armored back pressed up against his front.

"Well," she breathed, long lashes fluttering a bit, "I just couldn't stop thinking about you… After Dromund Kaas, I just had to see you again…"

The words were like a cold slap to the face. Torian found himself completely taken off-guard as his muscles relaxed and he loosened his hold to get a better look at her face. The woman batted her eyes at him, her full lips slightly parted as she slowly turned in his grasp. Was this another of his more troubling dreams? Or was this…

The next thing Torian was aware of was his back landing on the ground—hard. Stunned, he stared up to where the Champion straddled his chest, holding his blade in her hand as she pressed the familiar metal to _his _throat. As his mind began to clear, Torian began recalling the events of the last few moments: first, the woman had lowered his guard; second, she had grabbed both of his arms and enacted a reversal maneuver; third, she had used Torian's own weight against him to flip the young man over and onto the ground; and then she had straddled his chest and taken his knife, leaving them in their current position. Gods, but the woman was a magnificent hunter. Torian was grateful that his armor hid his sudden arousal.

"Men," Phelara scoffed above him, pressing against the edge of his knife hard enough to draw a line of blood. "You're all far too easy."

"Well, I never thought I'd be able to say this, but you are a _good _actress." The Devaronian stood just off and to the side; Torian distinctly heard the alien clapping. "I don't think any man could have resisted that little display."

"Once again: Too. Easy." Phelara grinned down at him—the gesture feral, showing off the barest hint of white teeth. Torian began wondering if his armor would be enough; if she kept this up, he was certain he would dent his pants.

"Good move," he commented. "I deserved that."

Phelara firmly patted the side of his face with her free hand, still grinning. "That you did. Now, you wanna tell me what you're doing out here?"

He scowled at the condescending gesture. "I asked first."

"Yes, but now _I _have the upper-hand." Phelara increased the pressure against his throat a bit, just in case he had forgotten the knife was there. "I think that means _I _get to ask the questions."

"Good point."

"Glad you agree," she replied with a wink. "Now, why are you out here?"

"Hunting."

The Devaronian snorted; Phelara sighed. "Are you really going to make me ask a bunch of specific questions?"

Torian didn't reply, though he did manage a smug grin.

"Look, kid, I've been walking through these damn swamps for a day now nonstop. I'm tired, I'm cranky, and I'm pretty sure that I'm covered in rakghoul shit. I came here hoping that you might be able to help me, but if you're going to make things difficult I'll just tie your ass up and leave you here for the beasties."

"My help?"

"I'm looking for a man. Jicoln Cadera."

Torian felt his hope rise a bit. It was important the he kill the traitor, but having the Champion's help in finding him? Now _that _was an offer too sweet to pass up.

"Hunting the traitor…you thought I could help? Son of the bastard?"

Phelara nodded. "That's what I was hoping."

"Been hunting him myself. Slippery prey. I can show you what I have, but not enough to find him. Not yet."

"Now that's more like it!" Phelara quickly hopped up, extending a hand down to the young man once she was clear. Torian accepted the help, feeling at the fine line across his throat with his free hand as she hauled him to his feet.

"Ohh, you must be a special one, kid," the Devaronian remarked, a sly smile on his red-hued face. "If I had tried something like that, my throat would've been cut for sure."

"Gault?"

"Yeah, babe?"

Phelara glared at him, though Torian curiously noted that there was little heat in the look.

"Shut the fuck up." She turned back to Torian, pointedly ignoring the Devaronian. "Now, let's have a look at what you've got."

/

**Author's Note: **Didn't turn out quite the way I wanted, but then again, this is one of those transition chapters with too much dialogue and not enough action. I'll try to pick things up a bit as I move on.


	4. Chapter 4

Four

Maybe it was the way she moved.

Muscles flexing, arms outstretched, feet pivoting as she turned to fire one shot, now two, now ten… Every maneuver was a result of muscle-memory due to what he assumed was hours upon hours of physical conditioning. A part of Torian had questioned her choice in lighter armor—he had always believed true Mando'ade conditioned themselves to manage the heavier stuff—but with the way the Champion worked, the choice seemed suitable. There were vulnerable points all over—under the arms, across the lower stomach, at the elbows and knees, at the ankles—but with the way the woman moved, Torian found that the fact was not really a disadvantage. If someone wanted to hit one of those spots, they would have to _catch _her first.

Maybe it was the way her eyes shone every time an enemy fell beneath a flurry of blaster fire.

At first, Torian had thought he was just seeing things; it wasn't unnatural for a hunter to take pleasure in the kill, but the look in her eyes every time a rakghoul fell, gurgling, to the ground—chest littered with smoking holes—seemed almost…_playful. _He could watch her kill for the rest of his life and never grow tired of the spectacle. She dropped another of the beasts and Torian watched as the sparkling light in her eyes leaked down to her lips, curling the tips up in a look that was so feral, so perfect, so…beautiful.

"Kid! You gonna stand there and stare, or d'ya think you might wave that big stick of yours around a bit?"

Torian looked over to where the Devaronian—crouched down behind a fallen pillar so he could pick his shots with care—was glaring at him. Behind the reprimand, however, there was a sense of humor. This "Gault" might seem like a troublesome idiot, but Torian had a stirring suspicion there was much more guile behind those smirking eyes than a cursory glance could give credit.

Phelara whooped, drawing Torian's attention back to the battle at hand. The woman pistol-whipped a rakghoul that had managed to get close then shot two quick blasts into its skull as it staggered back, effectively ending the threat. Her eyes passed over him briefly and Torian felt his heartbeat stagger at the primal energy that passed between them in that moment.

Maybe it was everything about her that drove him to distraction.

An imposing rakghoul rose behind her then, rancid saliva dripping from its razor-sharp fangs. Phelara was still looking towards him—looking as if she wanted to say something, completely unaware of the danger. Torian heard someone shout—was it him?—and she halted, turning around—

—Too slow.

One of the beast's clawed hands swept down and caught the woman on the side, easily tossing her aside. It was a short trip: the closest wall of the small compound they were in was barely five feet away and Phelara hit the metal barrier with a sickening thud. It was like some kind of eerie déjà vu—looking back to her fight against the Sith spawn—only this time Torian was truly there with her and his feelings had changed. He watched as Phelara struggled to regain her feet, glaring up defiantly at the rakghoul bearing down on her.

With a roar, Torian charged into the fray. His deep battle cry drew the beast's attention, but there was little it could do against the steel-edged staff that came swinging in at its head. Torian's weapon connected with a satisfying crunch and the rakghoul reeled back with a shriek of pain. The muffled report of Gault's rifle followed quickly after, taking advantage of the creature's position.

Torian was in hot pursuit, ready to deal the death blow. Phelara had managed to rise to her feet, though it was obvious that standing took quite a bit of effort. Her right arm hung limply at her side, leaving the woman with only her offhand weapon with which to aim and pop off a few shots at the beast that had managed to take her by surprise.

Within moments, the battle was done. The scorched and crushed bodies of rakghouls littered the ground, filling the cramped tunnels of the little compound with their suffocating stench. Torian turned back to where Phelara leaned heavily against the wall she had struck, breathing haggard. Gault was already up and at her side, sifting through his pack for medical supplies.

"You see, this is why I can't take you anywhere nice," the Devaronian was grumbling as he injected her wounded arm with what Torian assumed was a medical agent.

"You consider _this _nice?" she retorted, nose wrinkling in disgust.

"What? Get someone to clean up the rakghoul bile and string up a few fluorescent lights and I could turn this place into a cantina worthy of a Hutt."

Phelara snorted as she tested her right arm. Her armor had kept the limb from becoming completely crushed, but it was obviously still stiff. Torian watched each injection Gault put into the woman's body, wondering if the reason why the Devaronian carried so many with him was because this was a frequent occurrence. Hunters got hurt: that was a fact. But somehow, Torian found that he didn't like the idea of _this _hunter being hurt.

"Hey," she said, drawing Torian's attention to her face, "you ok?"

The question took him off-guard; the woman currently being pumped full of stims was asking if _he _was all right? Where was the logic in that?

"Not the one who likes meeting walls," he remarked, expertly masking the concern in his tone.

Phelara's eyes flickered at his use of a plural and Torian cursed inwardly. But instead of pointing out the slip, she said, "True enough. You just looked a little shell-shocked."

Torian bristled. "Not afraid of battle."

"Didn't say you were." Her voice was serious, but her eyes were still laughing. Before the young man could say anything more, Phelara turned her attention back to Gault who was finishing up his ministrations. "Can we get moving now?"

"Oh, sure. No need to _thank _me or anything."

"For what? Isn't this part of your job?"

"No, my job was to provide you with business investment opportunities."

"Is that so?"

"That is so. I became your personal nurse back when you were getting your skull cracked open by Killiks on Alderaan."

"Hey, I never asked you to do anything of the sort, so you can't blame this one on me."

Gault sighed as he returned the last of his stims to his pack. "You're right, of course. It was that little witch back on the ship. After I brought you back the first time, I thought for sure she was going to cut my head off. After that lecture, I decided it was in my best interest to always be prepared."

"So…then this _is _your job?"

"Ye—wait…damn it! Oh, we are so renegotiating my terms when we get back to the ship…"

Torian watched the exchange, smiling when Phelara began to laugh. She had a beautiful laugh…part feminine charm and part danger. For the first time in his life, Torian wished that he was the kind of person who could make her laugh like that.

Pushing off from the wall, Phelara started down the hallway. Gault followed obediently, his mouth still moving though Torian had stopped really listening. His eyes watched the way her body moved as he fell in behind the pair, hoping that he would be able to commit every detail—from the slight swing of her hips to the slender slope of her shoulders—to memory. If he died with that image in his mind, Torian would be a happy man.

/

Torian held back as Phelara approached the holoterminal in the center of the small room they had found in the complex. Somehow he had known that the place would be a dead end. Jicoln was a bastard, but he was a sly bastard. If he had been stupid, Mandalore would have had his head by now.

A small light on the holoterminal was blinking: a call was waiting. Phelara approached the machine and fired it up, crossing her arms over her chest as the holographic image of their target flickered into sight. The image was that of a man in his late forties or early fifties with a bald pate, thick beard, and hastily-penned tattoos running across each of his eyes and down his face. Those eyes regarded the woman standing before the machine with smug indifference.

Torian felt every muscle in his body tense. He had never actually seen his father before—except in a few faded photographs that he had been given as a boy. But those photographs had been of a much younger man, haughty and in the prime of his life. A proud warrior. The image hovering over the holoterminal still held some of the same steel, but if one looked close enough, it was possible to see a slight hunch to the shoulders, dark circles beneath those eyes. He was still a warrior in some sense of the word, but it was akin to a punch in the gut realizing just how washed-up the man was.

Not that Torian would show him mercy. Old man or not, the bastard would die with a knife in his traitor's heart. Torian remained out of sight—not that Jicoln was likely to recognize him—and let Phelara do the talking. This was her hunt, after all, mandated by Mandalore himself. Torian would allow her the lead, but when the time came it would be his hands that ended the traitor's life. His hands painted in the man's blood. Phelara might not forgive him for it—might even kill him for it—but a life without honor was no life at all. Jicoln's blood would wash his slate clean.

"_Cin vhetin," _he murmured, hands balled into tight fists at his sides.

"What was that?"

Torian cut his gaze to the side to where Gault leaned against a wall just a couple of feet away. The Devaronian's sharp eyes regarded him coolly, so far removed from his usual lackadaisical demeanor. Torian silently reprimanded himself for underestimating the alien yet again; Gault might play the fool, but there was something beneath the calm exterior that put the shadows in the room to shame.

"Nothing," Torian said. "Just old words."

Gault cocked an eyebrow, unconvinced, but did not press the issue. Phelara trusted the kid, but that didn't mean he couldn't keep both eyes open.

The holoterminal flickered off and Phelara cursed, drawing the pair's attention. When she turned to stalk past them, there was a fire burning in her eyes. Torian wondered how those flames didn't scorch the path she walked upon.

"Trouble?" Gault asked as he fell into step beside her.

"What? You weren't listening?"

"Not really." When she leveled that hot gaze upon him, the Devaronian only smiled. "Hear one crazy idiot's monologue and you've heard them all."

"When I find that bastard," Phelara muttered beneath her breath, "I'm going to beat that smug look off of his face…" She stopped then and turned back to Torian. "He said something about a…geh-roya beh-ha-run? Know anything?"

"_Geh'roya beharan. _It's aMando'ade death game. Four parts to the game: _ali'jate, _personal honors; _yeme sum, _the homeworld; the _stere'bise _defends a legacy; and the _nost _who destroys it. He will place honors around the battlefield, you will try to take them. If you get all of them, then you must take his home."

"Of course that's what it is. It couldn't _possibly _be as simple as an old-fashioned beat-down." Phelara sighed. "So how the hell am I supposed to find these 'honors?' Just wander around the swamp and hope I get lucky?"

"I will find them, point you in the right direction. And while you play the game, I will find his home. When you are ready to challenge, call me."

Torian moved to walk past her into the humid air of the swamps. Each step he took felt like another step closer to the end.

_Soon, _dar'manda. _Soon you will know me as death._

**Author's Note: **The last bit of dialogue I ripped from the game (thanks to a helpful YouTube video). No idea if I spelled the Mando words right, but there it is.

TRANSLATIONS:

Dar'manda – "one who is 'not Mandalorian.' Not an outsider, but one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity and soul."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **Thank you all for the reviews. I'm glad you're enjoying the story! I shall try not to disappoint. (Though I have to admit that the game itself is beginning to bore me, so hopefully I can at least make it through the rest of the BH story line before I quit. At Belsavis right now, so still have quite a bit to work with as far as this story goes. Dragon Age is a'callin', though…)

Five

Either Jicoln was getting sloppy, or he was so confident he would win the _geh'roya beharan _that he hadn't wanted to waste his time hiding his personal honors. Whichever was the truth, the old man was showing his weakness. Pride was a trait to be honored; arrogance was a tool of the foolish. It took barely any time at all for Torian to locate each of the possessions and pass the information along to Phelara.

Now to find the traitor's home.

The hunt was on him in full. Every step, every scent and sound the swamp threw at him, Torian knew he was closing in. Soon enough, Torian would face the exile—the man who had run away and left his son to bear the brunt of his treacherous actions all these years—and he would _end _the bastard.

Torian realized that his hands were shaking. He lifted them up, staring down at the armored palms and watching as they quivered. It was difficult to put a name to the emotions roiling within him—partly because there were so many, and partly because Torian had always worked hard to suppress _all _feeling. As a boy, he had learned that showing emotions was like placing the key to his soul in the hands of his tormentors. Show them that they had hurt you, and they would use that to further their brutality. Show nothing, and _they _were the ones who were afraid.

When had that calm façade started to falter? Torian had worked hard to build it up over many years of ridicule and anguish, had thought it was impenetrable. The first time emotions—other than the blood-boiling rush of the hunt or the occasional anger that poured through him in times of peace—had begun to escape had been…

_Dromund Kaas. _Something as simple as a smile, a wink, and the wall had begun to crack. Phelara didn't even realize it, but she had broken something within him. Time would tell whether or not that was a good thing.

He clenched his hands into fists, burning away the quivering with a rush of fury. The emotions did not need names. They did not need acknowledgement. Fear, apprehension, hesitation…these were not the tools of a Mando'ade. Torian filled himself with anger, with bloodlust, and the tumult was pressed to the back of his thoughts where it belonged. There was no room for weakness—not now, not ever. The scent of his prey was cloying, filling his senses completely.

It was time to hunt.

/

Finding the traitor's home had been nearly as easy as finding the man's honors. That meant there was probably a trap waiting for the young man in the depths of the dilapidated tunnel system yawning just before him. Not that it mattered. Torian had no intention of turning back now. He _knew _Jicoln was in there. Waiting.

His holocom beeped. Torian lifted the device out of its case on his belt and activated it, watching as Phelara's static-laced image flickered to life.

"_We found the last piece," _she reported. _"Where are you?"_

"Found the traitor's bolthole. Sending coordinates."

A pause, then: _"Got it. We'll be there soon."_

Her image disappeared and Torian returned the machine to its case. The reasonable part of his mind warned him against the path he was about to take, but he ignored it. Creeping forward, Torian made his way towards the tunnel's entrance. If he waited for Phelara to arrive, there was a good chance she would take this kill. He couldn't allow that. Jicoln's head was his and his alone, and now was the time to strike.

Similar to the first complex Jicoln had led them to, the tunnels here were cramped and dark. Torian sniffed deeply as he walked. Unlike the others, this place did not reek of rakghoul poison. In fact…the only thing he could smell was the swamp outside.

Not a good sign.

When Torian stepped into the first main hallway, he heard the sound of live wires sparking in the distance. Chances were that an old generator had been knocked out of place. He would have to step carefully. Staff in hand, he made his way down the hall. Apart from the sparking, there were no other sounds. The place was like a tomb.

_Good, _Torian's mind growled. _A fitting place to end him._

He had been so focused on stalking that Torian barely noticed the pinpoint red dots staring out at him from the shadows. His gaze passed over them and started to look away—when his battle instincts began to roar. Whipping back around, Torian barely got his staff up in time to parry the metallic arm that struck out at him. He quickly put his back up against the opposite wall to avoid any kind of flanking maneuver as a sparking, ancient-looking droid stepped fully into the dim light of the hall. Rusting metal casings and loose wires made up a lanky frame that lumbered towards him with halting steps.

Torian dispatched the droid with relative ease, swinging his staff forward and knocking the machine's head clear of its shoulders. There was a loud hissing sound as the exposed wires in the droid's neck sparked and spat embers before the remains fell in an inglorious heap to the ground.

Droids. The traitor was using droids to defend himself. _Coward. _

But that also meant that he _was _here. Why else activate the droids?

Moving carefully, Torian kept close to the shadows, triggering a small cloaking device attached to his belt. The device wouldn't help him against organic enemies; rather, it worked to lower his heat signature so that synthetic enemies would be less likely to spot him passing. He wasn't afraid of run-down droids, but Torian was tired of wasting time. He wanted to look Jicoln in the face.

The complex was small and it didn't take Torian long to find the main chamber. He paused down one narrow hallway, peering around the corner to scout the room. It was mostly empty, except for one thing:

"_Jicoln."_

Torian tried to bite back the word that left as a curse from his lips, but it was too late. The old man's head snapped around and focused directly on the hallway Torian still hid in. Remaining hidden wouldn't repair his advantage of surprise. Drawing in a deep breath, Torian moved into full view, electrostaff gripped tightly in a defensive posture before him. A look of surprise passed briefly over Jicoln's face before it was replaced by the same, smug look his holographic image had bore mere hours before.

"You're too ugly to be the pretty little thing from earlier. What do you want, boy?"

"Your head."

Jicoln turned to fully face the young man, smugness intensifying. Torian took the chance to take full account of his enemy's arsenal: a blaster rifle across his back, pistol on his right hip, two—no, three knives hidden in little sheaths across his torso and legs. A formidable opponent, then. But still a dead man.

"My head? Who do you think you are, boy?"

"Your end."

"I'll tell you what you are," the man continued as if Torian hadn't spoken, "you're nothing but a naive _ad_ on a fool's errand. Who told you my name? Do they still tell stories about me around the campfire at night?"

Torian didn't speak as he stalked closer.

"I'll give you one chance to walk away, boy. Find another way to get your rocks off and leave the fighting to real men. Besides, I've got a date in a little while and I'd hate to keep her waiting." Jicoln lewdly rubbed at his armored crotch, chuckling. "Been a while since they sent me a treat."

For reasons Torian couldn't explain, the gesture infuriated him. Fury set his blood on fire and before he could stop himself, Torian was charging forward with a bestial roar. He raised his staff high as if he meant to aim for Jicoln's head. Sure enough, the old man started to duck down and Torian quickly reversed the direction of his attack, bringing the back end of his staff up to smash into Jicoln's nose.

The man staggered back, left hand clutching at his bleeding face. There was no longer any smugness in him, only anger. He had underestimated Torian and he would pay the price for it.

"Wrong choice!" Jicoln spat as he ripped his pistol from its holster.

Torian had been expecting the move. In the couple of seconds it took Jicoln to bring the blaster up, Torian had managed to grab at the electronet attached to his belt. One shot took him in the shoulder, but he shrugged it off; the second veered off course as the sparking lines of the net fell over the old man. Jicoln fell in a tangled heap, snarling and spitting like the trapped, vicious beast that he was.

It was then that a sense of euphoria came over Torian as he stared down into the face of his father. The traitor was completely at his mercy, just waiting for the finishing blow. Death was so close Torian could taste it in the air. The wound in his shoulder burned, but he barely felt it. Temporary pain was nothing next to this moment—the culmination of all his life's suffering.

"What are you waiting for, boy?" Jicoln spat, hatred burning in his eyes.

"Not a boy," Torian snarled back.

The man snorted. "Keep telling yourself that. Do you think killing me will bring you honor?"

"Yes."

"Then do it! Why wait?"

Torian knelt down beside the trapped man, drawing the dagger out of his boot as he did. He danced the sharp blade in front of his prey's eyes, allowing Jicoln to see his end.

"I want to hear you _beg."_

"Then we'll be here a while, boy. Caderas do not beg like some pitiful _hut'uun."_

"Yet you hide behind _beskar'ade. _No honor in that."

The hatred in Jicoln's eyes dimmed as he regarded Torian. He looked…sad. Tired.

"We all do what we must to survive." There was no anger in the words, no mocking. Torian wasn't really sure what to call the emotion he detected. Resignation, perhaps.

Before Torian could respond, white-hot pain exploded in his back. His body bowed as wave after wave of electricity assaulted him; his mouth was open wide in a scream, though no sound escaped. When the attack finally ended, Torian's body slumped to the side, knife falling from nerveless fingers. Darkness was closing in around his eyes, but he managed to make out the figure of a droid kneeling down to lift the electronet off of Jicoln. As soon as the man had regained his feet, the droid turned towards the prone Torian—glowing red opticals narrowing with the promise of doom.

"No," Jicoln snapped, shoving the machine. The droid stumbled a couple of steps before looking back at its master. Unlike an organic, the thing didn't look confused and didn't question the command. It just stood there, awaiting the next.

"Don't touch the boy," Jicoln ordered. "Resume your guard protocol—destroy anyone else."

Torian exerted every ounce of his will in an attempt to regain control of his body, but to no avail. All he could do was watch out of the corner of his eye as his prey walked away. At that moment, his mind wasn't questioning why Jicoln had spared him. His battle fury had turned to pure hatred as he watched the man disappear, once more moving out of his grasp.

Footsteps—followed by the loud clanging of a droid falling to the ground—drew his attention to the opposite end of the room. Feeling was just beginning to return to his arms and Torian forced himself to lean forward part way, thought the motion sent waves of agony through the rest of his body. Opening his eyes, he focused on the blurry images of Phelara and Gault rushing towards him.

"Torian!" Phelara called, moving to kneel at his side. "What happened? Where's Jicoln?"

"Got…cocky. Pinned him, but he got away." Torian focused on her face, his eyes full of desperate fury. "You have to go! Quickly! Catch him before it's too late!"

"I can't leave you like this—"

"No time! He's hurt, bleeding, leaving tracks even you could follow. Don't let the trail go cold!"

"This is our fight, Torian. We finish it together or not at all."

"N-no…so close…" Torian reached a shaky hand out and Phelara grasped it within her own.

"Hang in there," she whispered. The words followed him into darkness.

/

When Torian opened his eyes again, he noticed that his entire world hurt. Not the blinding pain from before, but a dull, healing ache. It was then that he realized his head was elevated a bit. Craning his neck back, Torian looked up into Phelara's smile.

"Welcome back. Don't move just yet, though. Gault's finishing up."

It took all of the willpower Torian could muster not to blush when he realized that his head was resting in her lap. To take his mind off of that fact, he looked down to where the Devaronian was tying off a bandage around his chest.

His naked chest.

"W-where…" he stammered, struggling to sit up.

Phelara firmly held him in place. "Your armor and weapons are safe. Now hold still."

Torian relented, allowing his head to rest back against Phelara's folded legs. It wasn't the most comfortable position—she was, after all, fully armored—but a part of him was rather reluctant to move. Much like the first time they had met on this planet, he was close enough to really smell her. The scent was marred a bit by the odor of the swamps, but the salty tang of sweat from a fight and woman lingered beneath and it was those aspects of her scent that he savored.

"And…there! Finished. You can get dressed now, sleeping beauty."

Torian glared up at Gault; the Devaronian just smiled, arms crossed over his chest.

"Thank you, nurse," Phelara shot back, earning a frustrated grunt from the smug alien. She braced his back as Torian struggled to sit up, the wound still throbbing. He assumed that the pair had used some of their medicinal stims on him, but there was only so much that synthetic cures could do. It would probably take a couple of weeks for his body to feel normal again.

Once he had gained his feet and strapped his armor back into place, Phelara handed him his staff and knife. He placed both weapons in their respective sheaths, nodding his thanks.

"Kolto treated most of the major damage, but you'll probably be stiff for a while," Gault said. "The bandage is just a precaution. Not sure what hit you, but I can promise it will scar."

Torian inclined his head at the Devaronian before turning his attention to Phelara. A part of him was happy to see her—especially after waking up the way he had—but the part of him currently in control could only think of the fact that Jicoln had escaped. "Shouldn't have stayed. Should have continued the hunt."

"Y'know something?" Phelara replied, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking her head to the side as she regarded him coolly. "I hate the word 'should.' It's always 'should'a done that!' or 'should'a done this!' The fact of the matter is that I did what I did, and there is still time to track Jicoln down."

"Should have left me—"

"There's that word again! Listen, kid—" she stepped forward so that they were eye-to-eye (or eye-to-chin, since Torian carried a couple of inches on her) and poked a stern finger against his armored chest—"I don't leave partners behind. The moment you agreed to help me hunt Jicoln down, you became a partner. Next time, you can hunt on your own and get yourself killed however the fuck you want. Right now, you will shut up and say 'Thank you, Gault, for healing me.' After you've done that, we can get moving and find this bastard before the trail really _does _go cold."

Torian stood in stunned silence. Throughout his life, he had been reprimanded, beaten, ridiculed, and ordered around like any disgraced warrior. Most of the time, his fellow Mando'ade didn't even bother to acknowledge his existence. This was the first time he had ever been scolded—such as a caring mother scolding a disobedient child—and complimented at the same time. _Partner. _He rolled the word around in his mind. No one had ever called him that before, not even Jogo.

He had the intense desire to close the short distance between them and kiss her then. That was another foreign feeling. Torian had desired women before, of course: following Jogo into sleazy cantinas and watching as the beautiful women flocked around the man always left him a bit jealous. But he had never desired to _kiss _one before. Sex was one thing; intimacy…well…

"What's it gonna be, hot-shot?"

Torian tore himself away from his thoughts, taking a long step back from Phelara before he did something he might regret. Turning his head, he caught Gault's eye.

"Thank you…nurse Gault."

The Devaronian's face twisted into a look that bordered on surprise and outrage—as if he had just witnessed a Hutt mating ritual in action. Phelara had one hand clamped over her mouth as an attempt to suppress the laughter caught in her throat. Torian just smiled.

"You little—!"

"That is _so _your new title, Gault!" Phelara gasped in between bouts of laughter.

"No! That's it!" He threw his bag on the ground. "Find someone else to carry your shit! I'm out of here!"

Gault turned on his heel and began storming off. Still laughing, Phelara grabbed his discarded pack and moved to catch up. As she passed by Torian, she winked at him and made a motion that he should follow. Before his mind could react, Torian found that his feet were moving in the pair's direction. _Partners, _his mind whispered, warming to the idea.

And for the first time, a hunt meant more than just the kill.

**Author's Note: **Snatched a few lines from the game again, but I did try to change them around a bit to match the overall feeling of the story. The device Torian uses to "cloak" himself: I have no idea if something like this _really _exists, but I have a hard time believing that in the world of Star War such a thing _wouldn't _have been invented. So probably extreme artistic license there, but oh well.

And I know that Hutts reproduce asexually (don't ask how I know that), but I couldn't think of a better way to describe the look on Gault's face (using Star Wars terminology and ideas, anyways). No matter what else you might use to describe his face, I'm pretty sure the word "priceless" would enter the equation at some point. ;)

**EDIT: **To anyone who has already read this chapter, I just wanted to add that I totally screwed up my Mando'a word for "droids." Small thing, I know, but I fixed it and added the revised chapter.

TRANSLATIONS:

_ad_ – "child" (can also mean "son" or "daughter")

_hut'uun – _"coward"

_beskar'ade – _"droids" Literally "children of iron"


	6. Chapter 6

Six

"Gar taldin ni jaonyc. Gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la. _Remember that."_

The first time Torian had met Mandalore, those had been the man's words to him. Torian had taken them and used them as armor against all the sneering glares and harsh words. The armor was battered and bruised—even cracked in a few places—but it had yet to break. The others could spit on his name and treat him as an outsider so long as Mandalore did not lose faith in him. That was what mattered.

Following Phelara up the final incline to where his father waited, Torian chanted the words beneath his breath as a mantra. This was truly the end, then. The final obstacle standing in his way.

Gault had returned to the ship at the last Imperial outpost they had passed. The Devaronian had tried to act nonchalant about Phelara's dismissal—_"Want some alone time, eh? Sure that's really safe in a place like this?"—_but Torian sensed the underlying concern punctuating the alien's words. After the time Torian had spent with the pair, he could understand Gault's worry. Already he had witnessed Phelara enter battle and—as magnificent as she was—barely limp away. The "nurse" comments had been a joke, but there was a sense of truth to them. Gault was barely a healer, but compared to Torian's medical know-how—and, he assumed, Phelara's—barely was better than nothing.

"_Go keep Mako company for a bit. I'm sure she's going stir-crazy. If we're not back by tomorrow, you should take her to Nar Shaddaa for some shopping or something."_

The words had been innocent enough, but they all knew the underlying message: _If we don't make it back, the ship is yours._

"_Shopping? Really?"_

"_The kid deserves a little vacation. Treat her nice if you go, all right?"_

"_Babe, if you want to make the girl happy, _you _will have to take her shopping." _Gault had focused on Torian then, his light air of humor changing to one of complete seriousness. _"Bring her back in one piece. I'd hate to have to use your arm to hitchhike my way across the galaxy."_

Torian wondered if Phelara knew how lucky she was to have someone who cared for her like that. The fact that no one from his clan had come searching for their missing member —now at least two weeks since his departure—spoke volumes about Torian's own social life. He wasn't jealous of their friendship, just curious. If someone had asked him just then what made a good leader, his only answer would be to look to the Champion.

Phelara glanced over at him. "You all right, kid?"

"Fine. Not a kid."

She smiled slyly. "So you've said."

It was strange how such a simple gesture could make him feel so flustered. Had she been one of his clan mates, he would have felt the urge to defend his honor. But because it was _her, _Torian found that he was torn between just as strong of a desire to kiss her as punch her.

"You've been waiting for this a long time, huh?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what Jicoln did?"

Torian felt his temper darken. "He betrayed Mandalore. Betrayed all Mando'ade during the Great War. He deserves nothing but death."

Phelara nodded sagely. "I see. Is that what you honestly believe? Or is that the other Mandalorians talking?"

He stopped dead in his tracks and she stopped with him, just a couple of feet away. Torian knew he shouldn't be mad at her—the woman didn't truly understand the Mando'ade way, after all—but knowing didn't stop his fury from rising.

"Everything bad in my life is because of _him. Aru'tal—_know what it means?"

Phelara shook her head.

"It means 'traitor's blood.' Born with it. Before I even knew about him, my father cursed me. Never be free until he is dead."

They stood in silence for a long moment. Torian couldn't tell what Phelara was thinking as her steady violet gaze bored into him. Once again, he was caught between the two halves of passion: lust and anger. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hold her or rip her apart; truly, he wanted both.

Finally, she spoke: "You put too much stock in words, Torian. Only _you _can decide what you are."

"Honor is _everything. _You are not Mando'ad! You cannot understand!"

Instead of igniting her fury as he had intended, Phelara surprised him by stepping forward into his space and cupping one of his scarred cheeks in her gloved palm. Her eyes were sad as she regarded him; no pity, just a deep sorrow for _him._

"I understand honor," she murmured. Her scent overwhelmed Torian's senses, chasing away his anger. "I understand how much it means to warriors like you. But I have also seen how honor can destroy a good soul." Phelara dropped her hand and took a step back; Torian felt light-headed as her scent and warmth left him. "You have a good soul, Torian. Don't let it die."

With that, she turned away and began walking up the incline towards Jicoln's camp once more. Torian stared after her for a long moment. His cheek still burned from where she had touched him; his body ached for her presence. And her words…aside from the many unwelcome doors they had opened in his mind, Torian had noticed that there was something _else _about them. Something in the Champion's own life, perhaps. He had seen it in her eyes: barely a glimpse, but definitely something hidden there. Torian had assumed Phelara had grown up with the personality she portrayed to the public—that of confidence and strength. But that glimpse…

"Hey kid, you comin'?"

If they made it out of here alive, Torian vowed that he would try to uncover the hidden nature of this woman. For now, Jicoln waited. There was no time to think on Phelara's words. He still desired to earn his honor by washing himself clean in Jicoln's blood, but for the first time since he had begun this hunt, Torian found himself beginning to doubt.

What was it about this woman that changed everything?

/

The camp was empty, quiet. Torian walked in first, searching for any sign of the traitor's presence. Phelara followed a few steps behind, watching him. Nervous tension lined the muscles in his neck—showed in the slight quaver in his hands as he knelt down to feel the cold ashes of Jicoln's fire pit.

"Keep calm. Now isn't the time to start making mistakes."

"Close…" Torian straightened, sniffing at the air. "Know he's here…"

The tiny echo of a rifle being cocked reached his ear. Whirling around, Torian reached out and shoved Phelara down. Taken by surprise, the woman lost her balance and fell backwards—narrowly avoiding a bullet to the head. Jicoln jumped down from his sniper's perch behind them, holding the gun in front of him as he approached. Torian stood his ground in front of Phelara as the woman regained her footing, one hand on his electrostaff.

"Well done. You two are the first to ever make it this far. Even Artus couldn't find my home."

"His name is _Mandalore,_" Torian snarled.

"I know what he calls himself, boy," Jicoln snapped back, eyes narrowing. "I was there when he earned the title."

Phelara gently grasped the young man's arm. "Don't lose your head, Torian."

"…Torian?"

Jicoln looked as if someone had just slapped him. His pallor had paled considerably, the dark circles under his eyes seeming even more pronounced as he looked upon Torian as if for the first time. Emotions played in the old man's eyes that ranged from incredulity to relief. Torian tried to ignore those eyes—ignore the fatherly feelings buried within them. He had no rightto feel _anything—_not even remorse.

"Artus…he swore h-he'd kill my child at his mother's breast…"

"If only he had," Torian said, his voice laced with ice. "Better than living in the shadow of your shame."

"Artus…that bastard…he really knows how to kick a man when he's down. First he leaves me here in this…this hell!" Jicoln waved an angry hand, taking in the whole of Taris's demolished surface in one gesture. "Then he sends my own son to kill me… Is there never any end to it all?"

"Torian is here for himself, no one else," Phelara interjected. "I'm the one on Mandalore's payroll."

"But does he know _why _he's here?" Jicoln stared into his son's eyes. "Do you?"

"You stripped our clan of its honor!" Torian pulled his electrostaff from its holster across his back and pointed its sharpened end at Jicoln's throat. Hatred burned through him, compelled him to kill the man right now and be done with it. "Today, I'm taking it back!"

Before Torian could thrust his weapon the last few inches into Jicoln's throat, the old man was on the move. Jicoln ducked just beneath the weapon before springing back a few steps, bringing his rifle to bear. Torian was on him in an instant, staff in position for a heavy swing. Behind him, Phelara drew her pistols and began a barrage of blaster fire to keep Jicoln busy, giving Torian the room he needed to get in close.

Just as he raised his staff to strike down at his most hated enemy, Torian realized something: Jicoln wasn't fighting back. He just stood there like some kind of statue, resignation emanating from his very pores. Sad eyes watched Torian's approach; there was an understanding in their depths that death was assured if he did not move. Yet still Jicoln remained passive, rifle held at his side as he awaited his doom.

Torian halted his attack, throwing an arm out as a silent command for Phelara to stop as well. A split-second later, the blaster fire stopped. Jicoln's armor was dotted with smoking holes: most hadn't gotten through the armor to do any real damage, but there were a few oozing wounds.

"Why don't you fight?" Torian snapped. "Have you fallen so far?"

"I won't fight you, my son. If killing me will restore your honor, then so be it. But I will not fight."

"No! No honor in that! Fight, damn you!"

Instead of replying, Jicoln let his blaster rifle fall to the ground.

"You can't do this!" It felt as if his fury might begin bleeding out of his pores at any second. "Not after all I've done!"

"Torian—"

"NO!" He cut off Phelara's words. The last thing he wanted to hear at that moment was her view of honor again. Torian had waited all his life for this moment and even now the traitor disgraced him. Jicoln deserved death, but Torian would not kill an opponent unwilling to fight back. That was no better than murder and his actions this day were not meant as a crime.

"Fight," Torian growled.

Jicoln's gaze never wavered. "No."

Roaring, Torian threw his staff away and rushed the man. He balled his hands into fists and began his assault with a right jab to Jicoln's face. Perhaps it was instinct or perhaps the old man had finally relented; Jicoln dodged the punch and swept his own arm over to land a heavy blow against Torian's left side. The young man's armor absorbed the brunt of the punch, but it still managed to stagger him back a step.

It went like that for what seemed like hours: each man landed their punches and took them, each time shrugging off the pain and continuing the assault. Torian fed his muscles with his hatred, snarling every time one of his fists connected with the unprotected flesh of Jicoln's face. His countless hours of training came out in that moment, allowing his body to move fluidly as he dodged a punch here or turned one there, shifting what might have been a crushing hit into little more than a glancing swipe. Jicoln met him blow-for-blow, his eyes glowing with the fury of battle.

But eventually the older man began to tire; truly, it was inevitable. Torian felt his opponent's strength begin to ebb and he stepped up his assault, now landing more hits than he was taking. Jicoln threw a wild left hook at him which Torian easily dodged before stepping inside the man's space, using the over-extended, clumsy attack to his advantage. Right arm leading, Torian smashed his fists into Jicoln's face in rapid succession—one, two, three, four direct hits—before easily sliding back out of range, arms held up to defend against his father's retaliation.

A retaliation that never came.

Jicoln staggered to the side, his eyes clearly out of focus. He tried to raise his fists up—even managed to take a step towards Torian—only to crumple to the ground. Blood oozed from a myriad of cuts on the man's face, mouth, and from his nose, which was now twice-broken. Ugly purple bruises were already forming on the man's face; his left eye had swollen completely shut. Torian knew that he probably didn't look much better, but the euphoric feeling of victory that filled him at that moment trumped any possible injuries.

"_Parjai," _Torian breathed.

Phelara moved to stand beside him, clasping his shoulder with a firm grip. "Well done."

Jicoln looked up at them, his good eye struggling to focus. "You've won… Now…finish it."

Torian drew the knife out of his boot and knelt down in front of Jicoln so that they were at eye-level.

"_Liser gar su jorhaa'ir haar joha, dar'manda? Ib'tuur gar dar'buir balyc."_

Jicoln's brow furrowed, as if he were struggling to decipher what the young man had said. Torian felt disgust rise within him: his father had spent so much time in exile that he couldn't even remember his own native tongue. This man was no warrior. Not anymore.

"_Me'ven?" _The old man paused. "_Ner…ner ad. Ner ad…" _Jicoln then looked up at Phelara, his eyes mournful as he pleaded with her: "Please, bounty hunter. Give an old man his last request. Allow me…allow me to speak with my son."

Phelara stepped back. "It's your choice, Torian."

Torian leaned forward until his face was barely inches from Jicoln's. He brought the edge of his knife up against the old man's throat, pressing it against the tender flesh. Jicoln's eyes begged him for more time—begged him to listen. But more than that, they seemed to be offering remorse.

_I'm sorry, _they said.

_Too late, _Torian's answered.

"We will not be remembered as traitors. Today I earn my _cin vhetin."_

Jicoln's eyes fluttered shut the moment Torian ripped his blade to the side. The sharp edge of the weapon easily sliced through skin and muscle, opening a deep gash in the old man's throat. Blood gushed out of the wound, covering Torian's hands and the front of his armor within seconds. Jicoln gurgled once before the light in his eyes faded; Torian owed the man nothing, but even so he had made certain that the cut was deep enough to kill swiftly. Others would probably enjoy seeing the old man suffer; even Torian would have enjoyed the sight at one point, but no more. Whatever Jicoln's sins, he had been defeated and had accepted his death with a certain degree of grace.

What more could a warrior ask for?

Torian rose to his feet, eyes closed as he leaned his head back and breathed deeply of the swamp. It was done. The chains binding his name had finally fallen away. For the first time in his life, Torian would be able to walk into a Mando'ad camp and demand the respect due to him.

Truly, the past week had been full of "firsts."

Opening his eyes, Torian turned to where Phelara stood just a few steps away. She watched him, her proud smile tinged with sadness. He walked towards her, swiftly closing the distance between them until there was barely room for a breath. The warmth of her body seeped through his armor, igniting his blood. Phelara gazed up at him, waiting. In her eyes, a challenge:

_What will you do?_

This time, there was no hesitation. The blood of his kill was still fresh, the euphoria of victory still pumped through his veins, and the woman he owed it all to was within arm's reach. Dipping his head down, Torian caught her full lips in a soft kiss that belied the fire burning within him. Phelara leaned into the embrace, her hands resting on his blood-smeared chest.

She tasted of war: of salt and pain and triumph. To Torian, she was a drug. He reached forward and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her body flush against his. Their armor hindered any closer contact, but in that moment it didn't matter. All Torian could taste—smell, see, _feel—_were her lips, her hair, her skin. He knew in that moment that he would never want to kiss any other lips.

When they finally parted, Torian was surprised to see the blush that colored Phelara's pale cheeks. There was a sly grin on her lips as she gazed into his eyes.

"_Vor entye," _he murmured. At her confused look, he translated: "Thank you. I owe you."

"Oh really? Guess I'll have to keep that in mind…"

Her smile was infectious. Before long, they began to laugh, holding one another close without a care for the thick blood that painted them both. They stretched out the peaceful moment as long as they could, knowing that once they left the spell would be broken. Torian would return to his clan and Phelara to her ship. The warriors would return to where they belonged.

But for one moment nothing else existed, and that was what mattered.

**Author's Note: **Ripped a few lines from the game again, but (as those who have played the story arc can tell) I did change around quite a few details. Honestly, the ending to this arc confuses me a bit. When it's revealed that Torian is Jicoln's son, the old man seems on the verge of breaking down almost. He's been living his entire exiled life believing that Mandalore murdered his infant son and suddenly the child stands before him as a man. And so—he attacks! (Or defends, sure, but still…) Maybe this is just the way that I decipher the emotions that must have been flaring during this scene, but you've gotta admit that there's some credibility to the way I posed the story.

Things might have been a bit better (not to mention _hotter) _if I had gone full-blown "Fight Club" and had those two strip down to their pants instead of fighting in full armor, but…well, that would have been a bit strange to add in there. Pretty much, I write as the emotions in the story take me and so what happened, happened. (I can still imagine the sweaty, shirtless brawl all I want, however.)

TRANSLATIONS:

_Liser gar su jorhaa'ir haar joha, dar'manda? __Ib'tuur gar dar'buir balyc – _"Can you still speak your native tongue, traitor? Today you [who are no longer my father] will get the chance." (This is a very rough translation of the in-game quote. I got this from a YouTube video by melodieous on the scene and cross-referenced her translation with my own sources, adding a few changes I thought necessary. The word "dar'buir" translates to "no longer a parent" and so if anyone has a better way to put that into the sentence than what I've written for the translation, go for it.)

_Me'ven? – _"What?"

_Ner ad – _"my son" (Now, I slightly changed this line from the game because what Jicoln really says is "What? My…my son? Alive?" and I thought that was rather redundant considering the fact that you already covered that ground in their initial conversation. It's not much of a change, but I think my alteration fits a bit better.)


End file.
